To Return Not Yet a Hero
by VictorianChik
Summary: After the final fight against the Fantom, Quartermain returns with Tom Sawyer to visit his aunt and see some of America before regrouping with League in New York, but Tom has trouble struggling with his role as the youngest hero of the group. Slightly AU
1. Chapter 1 Returning

AN: I was reading jlbrew23's story on _League of Extraordinary Gentlemen_, and I saw the movie again. I think the plot of the movie was rather bad, but I like all the characters because I've read all their original literature except for Quartermain. For those of you who have not seen the movie but want to read my writing, go to Wikipedia and read a quick synopsis. For my story, Quartermain does not die (his death was rather uncertain anyway), and he lives to see the end of the battle against M.

For my story, I am mainly focusing the first few chapters on Tom Sawyer (my first fictional love ever since I read the book at age 9) and Allen Quartermain. I plan to add other characters as I go along. Of course, the main problem with Tom is that he was supposed to live in the American South around 1830's, but the movie takes place in 1899, but Tom shows up anyway. So I'm writing this story to take place in 1899 like the movie which means that the Civil War has occurred and slavery had ended though the South is still dealing with racial problems as it did and would continue to do for the next hundred-odd years.

Some of the dialogue (especially Tom's) I'm writing phonetically – mainly dropping the end G's in words ending in –ing. Before anyone nails me for berating the South, I will say that I am Southern, live in the South, and love the South. I like the Southern, country dialogue and have studied linguistics in grad school so it interests me to think what British man Quartermain would think of the rural South. Besides, as I said, I love _Tom Sawyer_ and Mark Twain used phonetic spelling heavily in his writing.

Enough about me, on to my story. I don't know how long this storyline will be, but I'm having fun writing Aunt Polly

Disclaimer: I do not own.

--

If there was one thing Tom Sawyer dreaded at the end of their adventure, it was returning home to Aunt Polly. He had set her up rather nicely before going off – all the money from the buried treasure had come to him when he came of age. He had taken some of that money to put his aunt in a nicer house. His cousin Mary had married a nice fellow and moved up the Mississippi River a few towns; his half-brother Sid had gone to college so it was Aunt Polly all alone in the house.

After two years at the university, Tom had come back to the house – a clean two-stories building with four rooms downstairs and three upstairs, a palace as Aunt Polly had declared, but Tom had only stayed there a few weeks before leaving.

One humid evening after she had gone to bed, he wrote a note saying he would be back at some future date, and then he climbed out the window with a knapsack full of food and money and headed for the riverboat. Every so often he wrote to her to tell her he was all right, but he never left a forwarding address, mainly because he never knew where he would go next.

However, after the battle with M or the Fantom as they had called him, Allen Quartermain had started asking about his home life, and Tom found himself telling the older man about his childhood growing up in the South. And though Quartermain had listened attentively, even smiling when Tom told some of the foolish things he had done as a young boy, at the end of the tale, Quartermain announced it was time for Tom to return to his aunt.

Tom had protested, of course. He had declared that he had given her plenty of money, and he was his own man and he didn't see why he had to go back to his aunt.

But Quartermain was firm, telling him that it was not befitting a gentleman to worry elderly relatives, and before Tom could put up a good excuse about not being a gentleman, Quartermain had arranged that he would return with Tom to visit the American South for a while. The whole League was breaking up for a while anyway – Nemo agreed to take them to the bottom of Louisiana to catch the river boat, but then the captain planned to set out for the far reaches of the North, hoping to find the North Pole. Mr. Skinner wanted to travel to America was well, but he had a desire to see New England, and Dr. Jekyll volunteered to go with the invisible man and help cover for him. Mina Harker was mysterious about her plans, but she agreed to go to American at some later time. Quartermain thought that they were all good plans, and they all agreed to meet up in New York in five months.

That was all very well for Skinner, Jekyll, and Mina, Tom reflected as he stood on the river boat, because they did not have to go visit their crotchety aunt in the middle of the rural South where everyone was as smart as the cows they owned. Tom felt a twinge of guilt for thinking something so mean about his hometown, about the people who had watched him grow up, but Hannibal was such a small trite place after Tom had seen so much of the world. After London, Paris, Rome, Venice – streets paved with cobblestone and building stretching up to touch the sky – Hannibal would seem so miserable and small with its dirt lanes and houses patched together with loose logs and tar.

Tom leaned on the railing of the steam boat, watching the edge of river and the trees sliding by. Occasionally a cabin would show through the trees, but for the most part, Tom could only see the landscape of trees and underbrush.

A slap sounded behind Tom, and he turned to see Quartermain brushing off his face. "Damn mosquitoes," the older man grumbled. "And it's damp and hot here, like a steam bath."

"Welcome to the South," Tom muttered. "And we only take baths on Saturday night . . . if then."

"This may be a short visit for me," Quartermain said.

"I'm not staying any longer than you," Tom protested. "I don't know why I had to come in the first place. Aunt Polly is fine without me – I guarantee by tomorrow she'll be sayin' how much trouble I am and how she glad she is that her poor sister ain't alive to see me now."

Quartermain gave him a close, searching look, frowning slightly.

"What?" Tom shifted, wondering what he had done.

"The closer we get to this town of yours, the more your language changes," Quartermain observed. "In Europe when I met you, I knew you were from the South, but that was nothing compared to this dialect you've slipped into."

"I don't speak no dialect," Tom retorted. "I speak English."

"Not English English," Quartermain stood his ground. "I should dearly like to meet your schoolmaster who taught you to speak like you do."

"Ha," Tom scoffed, "the only thing I learned form that old miser was that a ruler hurt less than a bundle of hickories."

"Ah, the old kind of schoolmaster," Quartermain smiled, almost with nostalgia. "A firm believer in discipline."

"Yeah," Tom frowned as he remembered, "the kind who believed if you weren't in mischief, you were just plottin' it."

"Was that true for your case?" Quartermain lifted an eyebrow.

Tom smiled sheepishly. "Might have been. One time, at the very end of school, right before summer, we were givin' a reciting, all the students, you know, and I was up to do a bit. I couldn't remember a lick because we were busy riggin' a fishin' hook on a string that we dangled over the schoolmaster's head and yanked his wig off at the end. It was grand fun until come fall and he was crosser than a coon dog in a briar patch."

Quartermain shook his head – whether in disproval of the story or of Tom's way of talking, Tom was not sure. He knew he sounded like he was from the South; everyone told him that when he first left and went north, and he heard mutters of "country boy" and "backwoods bumpkin" for the first few months. Gradually, he had learned to imitate the way everyone else talked, but here on the steamboat with its great turning wheel, drawing him closer and closer to the place where he spend his carefree days of boyhood, Tom felt his language returning. It felt good to slow down his words, drawl out his sentences, and grin when Quartermain spoke to him in clipped British words.

"It's a small place Hannibal," Tom admitted, letting his upper body rest on the railing, stretching out the muscles between his shoulder blades. "Tiny, really. The biggest thing that happened would be the Sunday School Superintendent showin' up for church and everyone runnin' round to feel important. When me and Becky got lost in the caves and found the gold and Injun Joe died, the news was so big some of them cronies fainted and folks took the day off to bend their ear over the news though Huck said it weren't no surprise, me runnin' off to have an adventure without him. He was sore from the time when we went to our own funerals and nobody cared that he had died 'til I told Aunt Polly someone had to care and he rankled from it."

"Who are you, boy?" Quartermain demanded. "All these yarns about your childhood, and your accent is getting so bad I can barely make out a word you're saying."

"Just wait," Tom grinned. "I'll be runnin' barefoot along the river 'fore you can say 'Stuck pig in a barrel'."

Quartermain shook his head. He wandered how much of this he could take before he ordered the young man to return to his role of gunman Agent Sawyer and not the backwoods boy who let his suspenders hang loose around his knees. Tom had worn the suspenders that way on mission, but now down in the humid South, Quartermain frowned at the boy's sloppy way of dressing and holding himself, the way Tom leaned against everything rather than standing up straight.

"Better shape up, Sawyer," he said gruffly. "I can see the port ahead."

Tom squinted up the river, and even with the glare of the sun on the water, he could see the rough wood of the pier sticking out from the land. For one awful moment, Tom wanted to run. He wanted to jump over the railing and swim in the opposite direction. He even grasped the top of the railing and lifted himself up on his toes until he caught Quartermain's eyes.

"Just joshin' you," Tom laughed, but Quartermain gave him a look that said to behave.

Thirty minutes later they stood on the pier among with their luggage, a brass-bound trunk for Quartermain and a small leather suitcase for Tom. Quartermain was not surprised, seeing as how he thought Tom had almost worn the same clothes everyday. The League had reaped some money from the successful mission, but Tom had not spent money on anything besides a bag full of bullets in London and two pieces of hore-hound candy from the concession woman when they first boarded the steam boat. Quartermain had watched Tom lick the sticks of candy away and then insisted he go wash his hands though Tom had seemed perfectly willing to lick them clean as well.

"Which way to your aunt's –" Quartermain began when suddenly as woman cried out,

"Why, Tom Sawyer, I declare. Is that you? Can that be you, Tom?"

"Mrs. Fords," Tom smiled, but everyone had stopped and began approaching him.

Quartermain stepped back to let the people give Tom a proper greeting, and Tom got pulled towards the center of the small town as the townsfolk talked to him, shook his hand, and even kissed his cheek. He responded to the warm greeting, calling people by name and patting the heads of little children who swarmed around him to see what all the excitement was for.

But finally Tom pulled back long enough to ask, "Where's Aunt Polly?"

"Lord's sake," one woman declared, "your aunt thinks you're arrivin' tomorrow and she set herself up in her kitchen baking like the prophets themselves are comin' to visit. She'll be fit to tie when she knows you've come a day earlier and she ain't here to see you."

"Maybe I should wait," Tom said doubtfully.

"Ha!" a man with a shabby straw hat burst out a short laugh. "If your aunt knows you got here early and don't hightail it to her like a rifle shot, it'll be your grave we'll be prayin' over. Get yourself goin' and don't waste no more time, boy."

Tom grinned and grabbed his suitcase.

"None of that," another man called out. "We'll be bringin' your stuff and the gentleman's soon as we get a cart. Least we can do fer two such fine fellows. Where'd you say you were from, sir? England?"

"Yes," Quartermain replied. "I service Her Majesty along with the rest of Great Britain."

"Don't know what was so great about it," another man muttered. "Seein' as how we whipped yer hides a hundred years ago in the Revolution."

"That ain't polite," a woman, probably his wife, declared as she hit the man with the back of her hand. "He's a guest and if he wants to call his country great, he can do it."

Quartermain thought about explaining to the woman that Great Britain meant more than just England, but Tom was already making his way up the street.

Quartermain had been to small towns before, but he had to admit that Hannibal was rather less than what he had expected. Not a paved road in sight, children running around barefoot (even some of the girls), and many homes looking shabby and worn and in need of painting.

Tom turned onto a second street and went towards a two-story house that Quartermain had to confess was much smaller than he had expected. It was a squarish house, two windows in the front with a gabled half window peering through the roof, but the house could do with painting, a new roof, a new walkway, and new shutters for the windows.

Tom avoided the front door and began to walk along the side.

"Where are you going?" Quartermain asked.

"If I knocked on the front door, she'd think something terrible happened," Tom explained. "Front door's only for emergencies, and actually we've never opened it before so it might not even open. No one goes to the front door round here – folks would think yer puttin' on airs if you did."

"We're dealing with this new talk of yours soon," Quartermain warned, but Tom had already ducked under the string of the hanging wash lines and headed for the back door.

It was open, and Quartermain could smell fresh bread wafting out of the doorway. Tom paused by the door and knocked his knuckles against the wood loosely.

"Aunt Polly, I'm home."

Over Tom's shoulder, Quartermain could see a woman in her fifties or perhaps sixties with dark gray hair, bending over a table to stir a bowl of something. But she looked up at Tom's voice, and for a moment she just stared at the tall blond-haired young man.

"Tom?" she whispered. "Tom? Oh, Tom!"

She rushed towards him and flung her arms around her, reaching to draw him tight to her. She might have been laughing or crying, probably both, as she hugged him. Quartermain felt a twinge of pain – he blamed it on the long weeks of traveling that he was getting too old for rather than the touching scene between the aunt and the nephew.

"Aunt Polly," Tom's own voice was choked up as he hugged her back tightly.

She pulled back to look him in the face, and her bottom lip trembled. She embraced him one more time, sniffing loudly.

But when she drew back again, her eyes were flashing and the wrinkles of her mouth were fixed in a furious scowl.

"Thomas Sawyer!" the name rang through the kitchen. "Where have you been? You reckless, thoughtless, childish, foolish, wicked boy! Trying to worry me into an early grave. Wake up one morning, and you're gone with a scrap of a letter as the only assurance that you hadn't been killed. I've been sitting here, breaking my heart over you, and you're out flittin' free as a bird. If my poor sister could see you now – well, it be enough to kill her if she weren't already dead. Wretched boy!"

Aunt Polly grabbed a clean wooden spoon from the table and gave him a solid whack on the seat of his trousers.

"Aunt Polly!" Tom gestured frantically to Quartermain, trying not to rub. For an old lady breaking her heart over him, she had a lot of strength in her arm.

"And you're brought a gentleman into the house without informin' me or givin' me a chance to tidy up," Aunt Polly went on, pointing the spoon right under Tom's nose. Though he was several inches taller than she was, she seemed to tower over him as she lectured. "I have never been more ashamed of you and your thoughtlessness."

"But I saved the world," Tom protested. "I'm a hero."

"Making up games at your age is disgraceful," Aunt Polly did not pause for breath. "You know better, and I ain't about to let you off for leavin' the way you did. And you should be thankful you brought a gentleman to visit, or we'd be takin' a trip out to the woodshed and seein' if a skinned hickory don't lay some sense into you."

Tom flushed, but he did not dare look at Quartermain. He had known Aunt Polly would be upset, but Tom had hoped having his friend and mentor there would keep Aunt Polly from lighting into him.

"I declare, Tom," she put her hands on her hips, still holding the spoon, "if I didn't love you so much I'd have killed you long ago. What won't you put me through? The rest of 'em don't give me half the trouble you cause. Mary's gone and married a banker, Sid's in college and makin' me proud, but you – you're enough to kill a body just by bein' you!"

"I said I was sorry in the note," Tom objected weakly. "And wrote to tell you I was still breathin'."

"Those letters," Aunt Polly pointed to the clean side of the table where a handful of letters lay open, evidence of Tom's poor communication over the last few months.

"I am sorry," he tried to look as apologetic as possible, but Aunt Polly would not relent.

"And just look at you now – ragged clothes, still thin as a rail, hair too long, white as a sheet with yer cheeks all red. Almost on yer deathbed, not able to take care of yerself. Well, we'll just see about that."

She grabbed onto his ear and began to pull towards the table. For a moment, Tom made a motion to yank away, but then he followed her without protest, trying not to wince at her tight hold. Aunt Polly pushed him into a seat and let go of his ear.

"Move from this chair," she warned, gesturing with the spoon, "and I'll give you a tannin' like you'd never believe."

Aunt Polly smacked the table with the spoon for emphasis, but then she turned back to the doorway where Quartermain waited awkwardly.

"I beg yer pardon, sir, for makin' you see that little scene. I can't thank you enough for lookin' out fer the boy and bringin' him home safely to me. He's a right naughty one, he is, but he never means to be cruel."

"Believe me, madam," Quartermain took of his hat, "your nephew has shown incredible skills and courage in the face of adversity. We all owe him a debt of gratitude, myself included."

"See?" Tom pointed out.

"You be quiet while the gentlemen is talkin'!" Aunt Polly ordered. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Please, it's Allen Quartermain, at your service, Mrs. –?"

"Ah, just call me Miss Polly like everyone else," she told him, her cheeks slightly pink at Quartermain's manners. "And you must be starvin'. Tom telegraphed to say you would be comin' tomorrow – a telegraph for me, what excitement that caused. Four people done come to deliver it, marched right up to my door with it in hand. But here he brings you a day early, and I got no supper prepared at all. I'll pull you something together, but of course Tom don't ever think about these things."

"We got to the steamboat a day early. Did you want me to wait a day before comin'?" Tom asked, not moving from his seat.

"Don't you bother about that," Aunt Polly insisted. "And where are your things? Probably toppled overboard while you were dancing round the boat deck."

"Someone promised to deliver his bag in the cart," Quatermain explained. "I will have them take mine to a hotel. You do have a hotel here?"

"The idea," Aunt Polly shook her head. "I wouldn't dare let you say in the hotel. You may have our guest room – I had it laid out the moment Tom telegraphed that he was bringin' a guest. No, Mr. Quartermain, I wouldn't dream of lettin' you stay in the hotel – what would people say? Oh, there goes the milk cart. I'll be right back. The bread don't come out for another ten minutes. Tom, don't you move."

Aunt Polly rushed for the door, waving her spoon to get the attention of the horse-drawn milk cart.

"Charming lady," Quartermain smiled.

Tom snorted. "Worst than I could imagine. She'll be on me about everything. Don't dare tell her about the fightin' – she never liked guns and I never wrote about bein' an agent. She thinks I took off and travel 'cause I like to keep movin'. And don't say nothin' about Huck neither. She thinks he took off to California to dig for gold."

"This is going to be rather difficult," Quartermain frowned. "Your aunt might ask how we met and why I decided to accompany you back. How will you avoid telling her that you were a part of the League, that you fought about side a vampire, an invisible man, and a man that can turn into a monster?"

"I'll think of something," Tom promised. "Right now, I got to get through the next few days without her seeing how banged I am from the fight."

"The ship's doctor looked you over," Quartermain frowned. "Nemo said you had a clean bill of health."

"But if she sees the scars, I'm done," Tom lowered his voice to a whisper. "She'll have me up in my bed, bein' rubbed with that nasty liniment while she fusses over me. You see that apron?"

Tom pointed, and Quartermain turned to see the wooden knobs on the wall.

"There are three aprons hanging there," Quartermain protested. "And she's wearing one as well."

"She's wearin' her bakin' one," Tom explained. "The tan one is when she tends the garden, the brown one is for cleanin' house, and the white one is for sickness. If she puts on the white apron, it means I'll be on my way up-stairs for a scrubbin', medicine, and bed along with any other awful things she thinks up. She gets all these medical magazines that tell her how to help sick people. _Torture_ sick people is more like it! So you watch – if she goes for the white apron, run and save yerself 'cause I'm done."

"You know," Quartermain observed as he straightened his collar, "for simple country folk, you are all rather complicated."

Tom sat nothing, just nodded in glum agreement.


	2. Chapter 2 Thinking

AN: I apologize for this chapter because it made my very hungry and I hope it does not do the same to you. Special thanks to jlbrew23 and Brit who enjoy this story, and thank the rest of you for reading and offering me your comments.

Disclaimer: I do not own.

--

Aunt Polly returned moments later with a fresh jug of milk which she put in the ice box and then turned to Quartermain,

"Well, sir, let me show you to your room so you can refresh yourself. Tom, show the gentleman to his bedroom and then you get to your room and wash up."

Tom stood, relieved that she wasn't going to embarrass him further, but she added,

"In half an hour, I'll find something to put on the table for you men to eat. And then I will be seein' how well you've taken care of yourself, Tom."

He grimaced, but she was already taking the bread out and smearing cream butter on top as she continued scornfully, "But I must see that the gentleman is fed first along with bothersome nephews that live only to torture a body half to death."

Tom hurried up the stairs to show Quartermain to his room. Then Tom went down the hall, opened the door to his room, and looked around.

The room was just as he had left it, except that the bed was made. Bard wooden floors with whitewashed walls, the window was open to let in some air, and the plain white curtains waved in the breeze. There was a small table and chair, and his old slingshot hung from the back of the chair. Tom touched the worn leather of the slingshot, remembering how he used to fire rocks at trees with it.

A bag of marbles lay on the table, marbles he had probably conned the other boys out of, one marble at a time. A book about pirates lay beside the marbles, a worn paper stuck inside it, a treasure map that he and Huck and Joe had drawn to mark the place where they planned to bury their best treasures. They had made up an elaborate map with code words and plans for three booby traps, but they had never gotten around to burying anything.

And in one corner of the room right under the hooks where he hung his Sunday clothes was the switch, a slim stick about two feet long and thinner than his smallest finger. When they had moved into the new house, she had set the switch right down in his room and told him it was there in case he got too big for his britches and she needed to take him down a notch. At the time, he had guessed it was her way of saying that even though he had bought the house, she was still in charge.

So far, she had never used the switch, but she had threatened several times when he argued with her about his future. She had wanted him to finish college and become a lawyer; he wanted to go on more adventures, hence his sneaking off at night.

Miserably, Tom sank into the chair and covered his face with his hands. Man, he had mucked it all up. Aunt Polly was hurt, Huck had died, Quartermain had nearly died, and Tom felt like the world's biggest bastard for messing everything up. Aunt Polly should be tearing his head off right then, not downstairs fixing supper for him and his friend. Tom wished so bad he could tell her he was sorry, but he had never been good at apologizing, especially to her. As a boy, he had put on his sad face and made his sad puppy-dog noises, and she always relented. Even when they had run away and come back to their own funerals, Aunt Polly had been furious, but she hadn't done more than give him a few smacks in between teary kisses. And whenever he was really sick, she would not leave his side, neglecting everything else to make sure he had all her care.

"Damn," Tom swore softly as he stood up and started pacing. Why couldn't Sid be here or Mary? Aunt Polly always got along well with Mary (the two of them being women and understanding each other so well), and Sid was such a snarky little brat that Aunt Polly never saw his true nature and thought Sid was an angel. But she was always scolding Tom, lecturing him for his carelessness or skipping school or acting out at church or any of the other countless things he did to drive her crazy.

Tom sat back down again, this time on his bed and pressed the heels of his palms over his eyes, digging his fingers into his hair. He fought off the stinging pain in the corner of his eyes, furious at himself for feeling so bad and tired.

"You all right, boy?" Quartermain's voice broke through his thoughts.

Dropping his hands, Tom raised his head and squared his shoulders. "Yeah, just thinkin'."

"About?" Quartermain prompted, leaning against the doorpost.

"Just stuff," Tom tried to look casual and not show what he felt.

"A nice room," Quartermain took a step inside to glance around. "A fitting room for a boy – simple, clean, yet spacious."

"I didn't grown up here," Tom confessed. "Out old house was smaller – Aunt Polly was – well, she didn't have a lot of – we weren't the poorest in town, but you know –"

"I understand," Quartermain nodded. "A lone woman, trying to raise three children – it couldn't have been easy for her."

Tom glanced up quickly, but Quartermain was still glancing about the room. "Not many books, I see. Preferred to get them from the library instead of working to buy your own?"

"All fifteen of the library books?" Tom smirked. "Our library don't have more than that."

"But you went to college," Quartermain frowned. "For two years, like you said. Did you not have books there?"

"A few," Tom shrugged. "But I left them there. College and I didn't quite fit each other. Most of them fellas came from families with servants and mansions and beds made of gold."

"Come now," Quartermain gave him an indulgent look.

"Maybe not gold beds," Tom conceded. "But they were so stuck-up and prissy and always acting like they were so clever. They would rail at me for not knowin' all them fancy writers and dates and long words. For the first time ever, I couldn't talk people into doin' things, and I stayed by myself most of the time, kind of out of the way, you know, so I wouldn't cause trouble."

"So you didn't enjoy anything about college?" Quartermain asked carefully.

"I liked a few classes," Tom admitted. "They were different from school here – my professors were much smarter than the old idiot I had for a schoolmaster. I could answer fast enough to please them, but I never got all my facts right and they were always tellin' me to read more. I had to study fer hours every night, and I dreaded classes. The only thing I was any good was shootin'."

"You took up range shooting?" Quartermain went to sit in the small chair, smiling slightly at the bag of marbles and slingshot.

"Nah," Tom shook his head, "I found a pair of pistols in the stables and I took 'em and practiced."

"You stole a pair of pistols?" Quartermain frowned.

"Yeah, I thought they belonged to that right ass, Christopher Holden Montgomery the third, who made hog squeals every time I walked by. I was sure they were his guns, but he never said nothin' about 'em so who knows whose they were."

"You make a habit out of stealing other people's things?" Quartermain asked quietly.

"Oh, it wasn't like that." Tom tried to explain, but Quartermain objected,

"Pistols cost a lot, boy. You can't run around, pinching other people's guns just because they tease you."

"But I used them. I practiced everyday, and they had laid there in the stable for three days before I got them. Why shouldn't I use them if no one else does?"

"It's the principle of matter," Quartermain persisted. "You shouldn't steal things."

"I used to swindle everyone out of their things," Tom admitted. "Here in Hannibal, I was smarter and quicker than the other boys. But at college –"

"You couldn't outsmart them so you started stealing from them? Can't imagine why you had no friends."

"It wasn't like that," Tom stood angrily, but footsteps thudded on the stairs.

"Mr. Quartermain, your trunk is here," Aunt Polly called from below. "Tom, your bag has come too."

Two men carried up the trunk with Tom's bag on top, and as they set the trunk in Quartermain's room, Tom opened up his bag. He had a similar shirt, trousers, socks, and two pairs of undershorts inside with the stolen pistols packed between the clothes. Tom took the guns out carefully, glanced towards the open door and hesitated. No matter how he felt about what Quartermain had said, he knew he couldn't let Aunt Polly see the guns. She had thought the slingshot was too dangerous, and he had to beg for her to let him keep it after he . . . had won it from a schoolmate in dare that Tom knew he would win.

Feeling even worse, Tom tucked the guns under the mattress. Just in time too, because Quartermain came back in.

"Now, where were we?" Quartermain took his seat again.

"We weren't anywhere," Tom began to unpack his sparse clothes. "I was just groanin' about college."

"Now, listen, Thomas," Quartermain began in a stern voice, and Tom turned to look at him, holding his clothes.

"Listen to what?"

"I think you need a bit sound advice about – what are you doing with the clothes?"

Tom had been hanging his trousers up along with his shirt but he looked around questioningly.

"Your clothes are full of holes," Quartermain pointed out. "The knees of the trousers are almost worn through."

"I know," Tom sighed. "But I wore my best clothes on the boat today," he lifted his arms to show himself wearing his best clothes.

"My word, boy," Quartermain frowned, "only two sets of clothes? I thought you said you bought this house and had enough to go to college with that treasure money."

"I did," Tom nodded as he brushed dust off his hanging shirt. "But why would I need more clothes? I can only wear one set at a time."

"But they're so worn."

"Aunt Polly can patch them," Tom said. "I used to bust the knees right out of all my trousers, and she stitched them right up. One pair I tore five times during the summer, but come fall, she took her old coat, cut it up, and sewed me new trousers to wear to school. She took the buttons off and put them on my shirt. I felt fine in new digs with new buttons, too."

"Indeed," Quartermain seemed at a loss for words. He stood up and announced, "Well, I best be changing for dinner."

"Changing for dinner?" Tom repeated blankly.

"Certainly. You remember the dinners we had onboard the _Nautilus_? We all changed for dinner, except for you–" Quartermain broke off quickly and hastily corrected, "I mean, some of us changed. But that was just a British custom bit, no reason to bother with that tonight. I'll just wash up a bit. I see you already have a pitcher of water. Scrub those hands – your nails would make _my_ aunt faint."

As Quartermain left, Tom sauntered to the pitcher and poured the water into the bowl to wash his hands. A small tin of soft soap lay beside the bowl, and Tom used two fingers to scoop up some of the goopy soap and smeared it over his dirty hands. As he set about scrubbing his hands, he remembered all the times he had balked at washing for church or school and Mary had to take him aside and clean his face and hands.

Tom leaned over to wash his face next, closing his eyes as he splashed soapy water up. Once clean, he reached for the small rag to dry off, just as he had been taught as a child except this time he didn't leave the white rag streaked with dirt. Looking in the small of mirror over the table, Tom ran his clean fingers through his dark blond hair. As a boy, his curly locks had mortified him, and he always begged Aunt Polly to cut them short. But she seemed to love brushing them out for church on Sunday so they framed his face and brought out the green in his eyes. But now he just tried to comb down the unruly curls, promising himself he would get a hold of his aunt's scissors and hack at his hair later.

Quartermain was waiting in the hallway, and Tom followed the man down the stairs, precisely half an hour from when Aunt Polly had sent them up. Quartermain pulled to a halt, and Tom actually bumped into the man's shoulder before he could stop himself.

Aunt Polly was in the kitchen, but the plain table in the small dining room was piled with food – bread, butter, pork, beef, lamb, boiled greens, fried okra, beans, potatoes, and four kinds of pie along with cake and cookies.

"Ah there you are," Aunt Polly carried in a pot of tea and a glass of milk and set them on the table. "Sorry to be servin' so little – barely a proper supper for a gentleman. Tom, stop gapin' and sit down. Now, I'm sorry, sir, but my tea is not the British kind, just plain, but I do have sugar and cream, if yer obligin'. Tom, wait until the gentleman sits down before servin' yerself."

Tom waited until Quartermain and Aunt Polly had sat and then began serving himself as much as his plate could hold.

"Sorry, sir," Aunt Polly frowned, "usually we say so kind of grace, but Tom will be a perfect heathen when he's hungry. Tom, use a napkin and don't take such big bites."

Tom rolled his eyes, but Aunt Polly was busy making sure Quartermain had all the food he wanted plus water and tea and anything else he fancied. Tom just kept eating, thinking how much he had missed his aunt's cooking. Europe had had many different kinds of food and he had tried them all, but nothing compared to the spread of food on Aunt Polly's table. It was all so good, and then to finish with cake, pie, and a glass of cool milk – Tom thought he had died and gone to heaven.

Aunt Polly tried to push seconds and then third helpings on them, but Quartermain finally said, "Thank you, madam, but another bite and I will never get up from this table. You have quite out done yourself. I have met few women in my life who could accomplish such a feat with so little time and such success."

"Oh, listen to you," Aunt Polly blushed as she got up from the table.

"It was good," Tom added, but she dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

"Why, you'd eat anything, child. And no sneakin' cookies upstairs to yer room. I don't want no ants about with a guest in the house."

She went into the kitchen, and Tom reluctantly pulled out two cookies that he had hidden in his napkin to smuggle up to his bedroom.

Quartermain frowned, but Tom protested,

"I get hungry late at night. And Nemo let me have cookies in my room on the ship."

"Nemo would have let you paint your room scarlet, he was so glad to have someone normal on his ship after the vampire, invisible man, monster, and an immortal," Quartermain scoffed. "And don't bother your aunt when she's gone to so much trouble."

Tom might have retorted and told Quartermain to mind his own business, but Aunt Polly came out from the kitchen right then, looping her white apron over her head.

Tom glanced at her, then he groaned, "Aw, Aunt Polly, I'm not sick. Look at me – I'm fine. I just ate all that food, too. If I was sick, I couldn't have eaten it all."

"Then you won't mind me checkin' you over," she declared, tying her apron ties into a bow at the small of her back so the apron covered the front of her brown dress. "Now, no arguin', Tom. I want you in the side room right now. Between scrappin' up barely enough food to make two bites, I heated up water to give you a good scrubbin', and you can just soak while I clean up the dishes."

Tom's face fell, and he looked like he would like to keep complaining, but she insisted,

"Enough dallyin'. The gentleman don't want hear yer fussin', so you just march yerself right in there, Tom Sawyer, and let us get on with it."

"I'm not twelve anymore," Tom moaned as he headed for the side room. "I know when I'm sick, and I ain't now!"

Aunt Polly said nothing as she followed him into room and nodded in satisfaction at the look of dread on Tom's face as he viewed his awaiting tortures. Besides a round wooden tub filled with steaming water, a chair was covered in clean strips of cloth next to a table with metal instruments: large tweezers, small and big scissors, a straight razor, a thermometer, even a needle and thread to sew up any gaping wounds. Bottles were also on the table: alcohol for cleaning, cod liver oil, herb medicine, camphor oil, healing salve, and several others that he did not recognize. On the other side of the tub, a wooden stand had two large cloths hung over it plus a nightshirt for him once Aunt Polly was done.

"I really ain't sick," Tom said in despair, looking longingly at the doorway.

"Even if you ain't," she returned, "this will make you think good and hard about runnin' off next time if you know this is what awaits you on yer return."

Tom wanted to retort to that he would have never returned if he knew that, but he did not have it in him to say that to his aunt, not after all she had done and all she had been through.

"First things first," Aunt Polly began to roll up her sleeves, tucking them up to her elbows. "You take off those dirty clothes and get down to yer shorts and sit yerself right down. You've been holdin' that left arm funny and I want to make sure nothing's wrong with it."

"Can we shut the door at least?" Tom whispered as he began to fumble with the top buttons to his shirt.

"On a warm evening with the tub's steamin'? Mr. Quartermain don't care about us. He'll probably still sippin' his tea, like he should. I can't imagine why such a fine gentleman would come all this way to our poor town just because he's yer friend, but he's done come, and you'll be on yer best behavior. What's takin' so long with those buttons?"

"They're too small," Tom protested, wondering how long he could put her off.

"Yer fingers are too clumsy," Aunt Polly strode towards him and began to pull the buttons free of their holes. "Filthy shirt, and no undershirt underneath. You put me to shame."

"My undershirt was in my room onboard, and the ship got half blown to –" Tom dropped off, suddenly not wanting to tell her what had happened aboard the _Nautilus_. But she wasn't listening, pulling off his shirt and telling him to take off his shoes and socks and trousers.

"And those nice suspenders I got you," she began yanking the strips off the chair. "You don't even wear them properly. Everyone probably thinkin' you've never been taught to dress right. All those years I spent raisin' you, and you disgrace me the moment you leave."

Now only wearing his undershorts – unbleached fabric held together in the front with a single button – Tom looked down at himself and was suddenly aware of how many scraps and cuts and scars and bruises were scatted across his limbs and torso. He wasn't sure how there could be that many, but he had forgotten how rough the fighting had been. That coupled with the fact that he was always banging into chairs or doors or jumping out of carriages before they stopped or not being careful with his pocket knife – he looked up nervously at his aunt.

"Dear Lord, child, what have you been doin'?" Aunt Polly shook her head, her eyes wide and concerned. "Yer all bruised up and scarred."

"It's nothing," Tom back away, but she reached forward and caught up his arm.

"You sit down," she pulled him to the chair. "And I don't want to hear a word 'fore I get you in that tub. I know best about carin' for you, and I want you clean and bandaged and up in yer bed for a good night's sleep, young man."

Aunt Polly snatched up a clean cloth and the bottle of alcohol.

Tom leaned back in the chair and grabbed hold of the wooden arms to brace himself. He was in for a long evening.


	3. Chapter 3 Wounding

**Warning**: This chapter contains mildly graphic medical procedures. If squeamish, do not read.

Disclaimer: I do not own.

--

Tom squeezed the wood of the armchair, fighting against tears. His eyes kept watering, but he hoped it was from the alcohol fumes and not the pain his sweet old aunt was inflicting on him.

She was rubbing an alcohol-soaked cloth in the middle of his back, trying to clean out a half-healed cut where a bullet grazed his skin. Tom kept drawing his shoulder blades together in attempt to relieve the ache of having the wound cleaned, but Aunt Polly was having none of that.

"You stop that," she gave his right ear a sharp tug. "I have to get this scrubbed clean or it'll scar worse."

"It's my back," Tom protested. "I can't see it, and no else can 'cause I wear shirts. Ow, not so hard."

"That's enough fussin'," Aunt Polly insisted as she scrubbed harder at the wound. "I declare – not matter how big you get, yer the same baby when it comes to washin'."

"Yer not washin' me," Tom huffed. "You're takin' my skin off."

"Well, I've been threatenin' to skin you alive since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, so I say it's long overdue," she said, satisfied. "There that's clean. It's red, but I don't need to stitch it up, I guess."

"No, no," Tom assured her. "A bandage will do me, please."

His aunt made no answer; she just moved down a few inches and started on the next scar.

Tom was not sure why she started on his back. When she moved back there, he could hear her sniff for the first few minutes, and he stiffened his whole body and tried to take it like a man. It worked for the first few minutes, but then he started hissing and hunching up his shoulders, and she set to scolding him and the sniffing stopped.

"It's not just the scars either," Aunt Polly reached for a clean rag and threw the dirty one into an empty bucket. "You're filthy."

"We were on a boat," Tom muttered. "Wasn't a lot of room to wash."

"Many nights I cleaned you spotless with half a pail of water and the hem of my apron."

"I remember," Tom said darkly.

"Then that's no excuse. You should have asked politely for water and a rag and made yerself a gentleman, especially with any ladies onboard. The idea of you sailin' on a riverboat in this condition – there was plenty of water in the river. Why didn't you use that?"

"We were only on the river for a short while. Before that we were on the ocean."

"And that ain't got water in it?"

"You can't bathe in the ocean water. It's all salty."

"How would you know? You never got in it," she set to work scrubbing again with renewed vigor. Tom gripped the chair even tighter, glad she couldn't see him wince.

A few tortured minutes later, she marched around the chair and stood in front of him. She reached down to cup his chin, lifting his face up.

"Yer mother's eyes," Aunt Polly said, gently brushing back Tom's unruly bangs. "My poor dead sister – it's like she's staring back at me."

Tom waited. He always wanted to hear about his mother, what she had been like. Aunt Polly refused to talk about his father, but she would drop little bits of information about his mother. Through the years, Tom had picked up enough scraps to piece together a picture of his mother. He kept the picture in his head, thinking about it every evening before he went to bed so he wouldn't forget her.

"She'd be proud at how handsome you've gotten," Aunt Polly said softly. Then her tone grew stern, "But she'd take a switch to you for runnin' off like that. Wicked boy."

Tom looked away, knowing the moment was over. She picked up clean rag, but instead of pouring alcohol on it, she dipped it into warm water.

Tom closed his eyes when she approached him, but she was always careful with his face. The rest of his body she treated without a bit care about his feelings or his recent injuries, but his face she never scrubbed too roughly or slapped or smacked with her umbrella.

Starting at his cheekbones, she eased the cloth back and forth over his sun-darked skin, going down to clean his jaw and up to wipe his forehead.

"I can wash my face," Tom said, but he kept his eyes shut.

"Hush," Aunt Polly told him. "Oh, and neglectin' behind your ears. And what are all these tiny nicks?"

"I shave now."

"It's a wonder you don't chop off your fingers," she said. "You were never very good with a knife, even with whittling."

"Better with a gun," Tom said under his breath.

"Don't you ever touch a gun," she scolded sharply. "You'd kill yourself in a second. There, yer face is good. Let's have a look at your arms."

His right was all right for the most part, just a few tiny scars, but his upper left arm still had pieces of wood in it from when the ship had been blown apart with the bombs. At the time, Tom had yanked most of the splinters out, but he didn't have the time to get the rest out before they went to battle. His skin had hardened over the small pieces of wood, an ugly scab that lay over black and blue skin. It stung when he moved his arm too quickly.

"Does this hurt?" she demanded as she pressed her thumb over the scab.

"Ow, yes!" Tom hollered, barely able to resist slapped her hand away.

"Then they have to come out," Aunt Polly said grimly. She picked up the pair of tweezers and the straight razor.

"Oh, no, please, Aunt Polly," Tom begged. "Please don't. It don't hurt no more."

"Quiet down," she shushed him as she wiped the area clean with the alcohol. "It'll be over in a minute."

"Let me do it," he pleaded as she drew the razor blade close. "I can do it really quick."

"Nonsense. You'll hurt yerself, and it's too far on the side for you to get the right angle. Do I need to call Mr. Quartermain to hold you down?"

"No, I'll stay still," Tom swallowed hard.

"Hold onto the chair arms and bite on this." She pushed at thick folded cloth into his mouth, and he ground his teeth down into it.

The first slash was the worst. Tom groaned at pain, his eyes filling with tears. Aunt Polly didn't wait in cutting the razor down again; Tom's fingers trembled, but he held onto the arms.

"Last one," Aunt Polly said, and the razor sliced through the scabbed skin. Aunt Polly began to lift up the scab, and tears flooded down Tom's cheeks. He thought he could stand the pain, but it was Aunt Polly hurting him, and he still felt so guilty about everything, and everything hurt. His teeth ached from clenching down on the cloth, but he didn't dare spit it out or Quartermain would hear him crying.

"There, there, baby," Aunt Polly said gently. She shifted all the instruments to one hand and used her apron to wipe the tears off his face. "Almost over."

She pulled the scab off to reveal puss, blood, and splinters sunk deep into raw skin. Quickly as she could, she began to yank out the wood with the tweezers. Tom watched, blinking the tears out of his eyes, but it didn't hurt so much now that she had removed the scab.

Once the wood was out, the alcohol was poured over the area, and the tears came again. Tom didn't even try to hold back; his whole body shook with his silent sobs.

The rest of the inspection was awful, a long slow torture. There were cuts on his knees, shrapnel in one ankle, and a deep wound high on his ankle that she had to clean four times to get all the grime.

Once she was finished with his ankle, Aunt Polly took out the spit-soaked cloth that were nearly bitten in two and popped the thermometer into his mouth.

"Don't bite on that," she warned. "Let me make sure the bath is still warm enough."

Tom nodded, and once her back was turned, he swiped a sweaty hand over his eyes. He was freezing, shaking all over, and all his wounds hurt horribly. The only good think about the evening was that she didn't have to sew him up – Tom did not know how he would have ever stayed still for the needle and thread.

Aunt Polly came back to take the thermometer out and frowned at the reading. "Too high – you'll be sick if we don't get you warmed up and in bed. Let's get you into the tub," she took his hand, and he stood up weakly.

"Drop them britches," she ordered, "and then into the tub."

He put a hand on his shorts, but hesitated as he looked at her.

"Goodness sakes," Aunt Polly shook her head, "I've given you baths ever since your poor dead mother left you with me – you could barely walk back then. Very well – but you fall over and you'll be sorry."

She turned away to clean up the chair and the dirty rags. Tom quickly shed his undershorts and stepped into the water. It was almost too hot, and he hissed as he lowered himself down.

He had barely sat down and covered himself under the water, when she bustled back to tub. She grabbed a rag, thrust it into the water (Tom squeaked a protest), and then she draped the wet cloth over his head.

"You stay in that water and soak for a whole," she told him. "I'm goin' to check on the gentleman and then I'm comin' back to wash you and we're getting' you to bed. Rest is the only thing you need." She started walking towards the door so Tom wouldn't see how her lips trembled as she said the last part.

Though his arm still hurt, Tom leaned back in the tub and tried to think of something, anything, other than how bad he felt, both inside and out. Part of him wanted to run away, as far away as he could go, until he left all his problems behind. Another part of him wanted to lay his head in Aunt Polly's lap and let her pet his hair and soothe him while he cried.

Tom sunk a little farther down into the water and closed his eyes, causing two huge tears to slide down his damp cheeks.

From the moment Aunt Polly had escorted Tom to side room, Quartermain had not known what to do with himself. He considered going outside and taking a walk (he could use a bit of exercise after that enormous meal), but he hated to leave without telling his hostess where he was going, and he would not have interrupted at the moment for the world. He had also contemplated going up to his room, but again he felt he should inform the lady of the house.

The table was still full of food and plates, but Quartermain could not imagine what Aunt Polly would say if he attempted to clean them up, and he dared not enter her sanctuary of the kitchen without permission. So he sat in a comfortable chair near the side room in case he was needed, but far enough away to give them the illusion of privacy. He had heard Tom's complaining throughout, and when Aunt Polly mentioned his name, Quartermain had risen to his feet to be of assistance. But as she did not fetch him, he stayed where he was and eventually settled back down in his chair.

A few newspapers lay displayed on a small table, and Quartermain pretended to peruse them, all while keeping his ears focused on the sounds coming from the other room. He could not imagine the saintly lady hurting the lad, but if the sounds grew too intense, Quartermain planned to force his help on the two of them.

When Aunt Polly left the room, Quartermain leap to his feet. "Madam, if I can offer my assistance in any way –"

"No," Aunt Polly shook her head, sniffing slightly, "just cleanin' up my poor nephew. Boy hasn't the sense God gave a –" she suddenly covered her mouth with her hand and her eyes screwed together tightly as she found against her feelings. A moment later, she found composure and opened her eyes.

"Forgive me, sir," she whispered. "Forgive me."

"Not at all, my dear lady," Quartermain assured her. "Please, have a seat. Let me fetch you a cup of tea or glass of wine."

"No," Aunt Polly gave a short laugh, "oh, no, you're a guest here. It's just him, my boy, he scares me to death all the time, and I want to tear his ears off, but then he looks at me with those sweet, sad eyes, and I can't help myself."

"Aye, the boy does have a certain way about it – hard to resist," Quartermain smiled in spite of himself. "Though I doubt he gets into as much mischief as he used to. He must have grown up some."

"You would think so," Aunt Polly frowned, forgetting her sorrow. "But I swear every time he gets together with that Huck Finn or Joe or anytime Tom is just hangin' around with too much time on his hands – pure chaos. And as he gotten older, he's gotten more and more brash, thinkin' he's invincible. Breaks my heart right in two, it does."

"I'm sure he has learned something," Quartermain said, not believing his own words, but wanting to comfort her. He had met many admirable people in his lifetime, men and women of great caliber, but the woman before him seemed to put them to shame. She who had raised three children alone, in the middle of the poor South, without much money and no help, and still stood strong as she grew older and older . . .

"I insist you let me help you with these dishes," Quartermain moved towards the table. "If not to wash, than to at least carry them back to the kitchen."

"I couldn't allow that," Aunt Polly tried to object, but he was already toting the heavy dishes back to the kitchen.

By the time they had cleared the table, and Aunt Polly had set the dishes to soak, she announced it was time to get back to Tom.

In the side room, Tom had nearly fallen asleep in the tub, but he tried to revive himself, especially when he saw Quartermain at the doorway.

Aunt Polly yanked a new rag up and grabbed a tin of soap, settling on her knees beside the tub. "Sir, would you mind terrible getting me a spoon from the kitchen, a large spoon?"

Quartermain hastened to the kitchen. He found a spoon and washed it off, hesitating to grab a clean glass of water, thinking Tom might need it if Aunt Polly was going to do what he thought she would do with the spoon.

"Yer pulling my hair," Tom was protesting as Quartermain neared the side room again.

"If you'd hold still, it wouldn't hurt so much. Oh, Tom, don't splash so much. Close your eyes so the soap don't get into them."

"I can wash my own hair," he protested, but she continued to lather the soap into his blond locks which turned dark with the water.

"Yer getting a haircut tomorrow," she decided. "Ah, thank you, Mr. Quartermain. If you would be so kind to hand me that bucket of water over there so I can rinse him off."

Quartermain did so, and Aunt Polly poured it slowly over Tom's head as Tom sputtered and tried to wipe his eyes.

"I guess yer clean enough," she finally proclaimed. "Now take yer medicine and you can get out."

Tom had hoped Quartermain might deliver the spoon and leave, but instead he stood proxy by Aunt Polly and handed her the bottles as she poured doses out and made Tom swallow them. As Tom gulped down one awful spoonful after another, his only comfort was the fact that the bathwater was clouded enough with soap to give him some privacy. Aunt Polly seemed to not care at all that their fine guest was there for Tom's humiliation; she kept right on scolding him as if it were just the two of them.

"So completely reckless, rushing about getting' so banged up. You'll be the death of me, Tom, and you couldn't care less about my poor heart. No, open up and take the medicine. It'll help you feel better."

Tom nearly choked on the cod liver – he hated the slimy stuff – but as he gagged, Quartermain warned,

"Swallow that stuff, boy, or we'll give you another. This is what you deserve after taking such poor care of yourself."

Tom's eyes widened to their fullest at hearing Quartermain take up Aunt Polly's voice, but the man calmly handed her another bottle to fill up yet another nasty spoonful.

Quartermain finally ran out of bottles to hand Aunt Polly (Tom felt relief – he had been worried that she might start him on a second round and march through the doses again), and Tom got to gulp down the glass of water. He swallowed all of it and used the last mouthful to swish around to get the bitter taste out of his mouth before Quartermain took away the glass. Aunt Polly went to fetch the large pieces of cloth for Tom to dry off with.

Tom's wounds still hurt a bit, but the alcohol in the medicine help dull down the pain a bit, and he could only think of his bed upstairs and his soft pillow. Aunt Polly made short work of drying him off, and he quickly pulled on new undershorts (the only other pair he owned). Then Aunt Polly sat him back down in the chair to dress his wounds.

Quartermain stood close, giving his opinion about proper bandaging. He advised Aunt Polly to make sure the wound was dry, but had air to breathe, and to his surprise, she not only took his advice, but asked for it.

"I read that you should change bandage every other day. What do you think, sir?"

"Every, ma'am," he answered firmly. "Keep it dry, but change the bandage, especially down here in the damp heat. Don't want infection to set in."

"There, Tom," Aunt Polly smiled. "The gentleman has fair head on his shoulder and understands how things ought to be done. No nonsense for our Mr. Quartermain, and we best mind what he says."

Tom felt too tired to argue so he replied, "Yes, Aunt Polly," in a dull tone.

When she had bound up the last wound, Quartermain was waiting with the night shirt, and Aunt Polly had Tom raise his arms so she could slip the garment over him. When he stood, the hem fell just past his knees, and Quartermain fought to keep himself from smiling. The boy looked years younger, and the fact that he as yawning his head off only added to that look.

They both marched Tom upstairs, Aunt Polly itching to hold his hand, but knowing Tom would flatly refuse that. She remembered him as a very, very small boy, clutching at her hand as she took him to bed after bathtime. In those days, he was always at his most adorable right before bed, after a long day of romps and pranks had worn the naughtiness out of him, and he was eager to get her to sit on his bed to tell a story and he would lift his face up for a kiss at the end. Once he had turned seven or eight, someone must have teased him about it because he refused all bedtime rituals, but she cherished the memory of those nights and her baby boy.

Sid had been an easier child, very quiet and obedient, but he was never openly affectionate with her like Tom was. Tom would make her so mad she wanted to whip him everyday for the rest of his life, but then he would hug or kiss her, and she couldn't stay mad at him a second longer.

Tom collapsed into bed as soon as they reached his room, and Aunt Polly covered him up with a sheet and a light quilt. On impulse, she reached down to kiss his forehead.

"I'm glad you're home, child," she told him. Tom gave her a tired smile.

She seemed to have something in her eye for she turned away and left the room, swiping furiously at her face.

Quartermain remained in the room, and Tom managed to whispered, "Sorry she's such a bother."

"Now, you listen to me, young man," Quartermain said in a voice much sterner than he had ever used with Tom. "You better treat your aunt with every respect and courtesy or I'll take over her role and switch you myself."

Tom tried to look shocked at that pronouncement, but he was too tired to really understand the seriousness behind those words. He nodded, and then his eyes slid shut.

Quartermain had not been quite finished – in fact, he had planned to lecture the young man soundly for some time to impress him with just how much Aunt Polly deserved his appreciation and if Quartermain ever heard an impatient or cross word from Tom to his aunt, he would be taking Tom on a trip to the nearest woodshed for even more talking and not so much with words.

But apparently Tom was too tired to stay awake a moment longer so Quartermain gave a firm "Hmph!" to end the conversation and left the room. But the old hunter shut the door softly, the catch of the latch barely audible.

Downstairs, Aunt Polly was back at work. She was elbow-high in dishes, but she turned when he came in. "Sir, I have water boilin', and if you don't mind waiting twenty minutes, I can have a bath ready for you as well."

"I stand amazed at how much work you have done for your nephew's guest," Quartermain told her. "I never imagined I would inconvenience you so."

"Oh, no, sir, no inconvenience at all," Aunt Polly assured him. "To be honest, I'm glad Tom finally invited a friend to visit. Every holiday he had from college, I hoped he might bring a friend home, but he never did. I was afraid to ask – he'd seemed so quiet and unhappy when he'd come home. The first time I was a nervous wreck, thinkin' he had caught something awful and would be dyin' the next day, but he wouldn't talk about it. I learned not to ask though I couldn't understand it. He was always such a friendly lad, makin' chums all over Hannibal. But I suppose the college was different."

Quartermain let her talk, not wanting to interrupt once she had started. But when she paused, he finally spoke,

"Tom told me he is not planning on staying here long."

"What?" Aunt Polly paled. Quartermain stepped forward to take her arm.

"Come, sit down. No, the dishes and the water can wait. Sit for a bit and listen to me."

Aunt Polly let him steer her to the small table, and after she sat, Quartermain sat opposite her.

"I met Tom in London –"

"England!" Aunt Polly shrieked. "When did he go to England?"

"He joined the Secret Service and the American government sent him to Europe to join our group. He was our marksman, quite a good shot."

"A marksman? In Europe? In the Secret Service? I will skin him alive!" Aunt Polly made a motion to stand up, but Quartermain put his hand over hers.

"Calm yourself, madam. Tom behaved admirably, and he saved many lives. We defeated our enemy, and our group dissolved. However, we all have plans to meet up in New York several months from now."

"New York?" Aunt Polly looked as if Quartermain had suggested meeting on the moon. "Why would Tom want to go there? London is one thing, and considering you were there to look after him, I'm not too upset. It's not as if you two went somewhere wild like – like Paris."

Quartermain decided to hold his tongue on that matter.

"But," Aunt Polly continued, "I see no reason for him to traipse off to New York. He'll get run over by those carriages or trains and then he'll be hangin' round those dancin' halls with those hussies in scarlet, probably tryin' to sneak drinks of liquor when no one's lookin. No, sir, he stays right here."

"I understand your view complete," Quartermain knew he had to be very diplomatic. "Unfortunately, Tom did promise the group he would be there, and his service to his country is not quite over. I will be accompanying him, but I was wondering if you, too, madam, would like to come with us."

"Me?" Aunt Polly's eyes went wide. "Me? Go to New York? I wouldn't dream of it. Who would watch the house? And the fair is comin' soon – who will bake the pies? I have to serve on the church sewing bee – we're makin' quilts to send to the middle of the Amazon to clothe those naked heathens. I couldn't leave."

"Oh, of course, I understand if you have previous commitments," Quartermain nodded, his face completely serious. "My reasons for your going are completely selfish. I was hoping for a bit of relaxation, but I feel I must look after your nephew. One member of the group is a woman, a much older European woman, and Tom was quite taken with her. I played chaperon to ensure she did not tempt your innocent boy, but it is hard to watch them all the time . . ."

Quartermain trailed off, hoping he had made his point.

The corners of Aunt Polly's mouth tightened. "I consider a duty, then, to accompany you," she stated. "For the next few months, I will prepare for our trip. And Tom won't be goin' anywhere other than Sunday School and church."

She slapped the table to show how determined she was, and she stood to get back to work. As she started back on the dishes, she began muttering under her breath about the nerve of her boy, running off to Europe and mixing in with loose women – how dare he?

Quartermain felt a slight twinge of guilt at betraying Tom's confidence to his aunt, but Quartermain was not leaving the worthy woman to worry and fret all alone. Besides, it would serve the boy right for running off without a word, traveling and staying in New York with his aunt. Quartermain had no idea how the group would welcome the older lady, but considering the way Aunt Polly could cook and her excellent doctoring skills, they would learn to accommodate her. And Quartermain could just imagine Tom's face when he heard the news.


End file.
